


If It Comes Back Then It's Yours

by kaijusizefeels



Series: If You Love Something Set It Free [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt Napoleon, Illya doesn't know that he is a spy, M/M, Protective Illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 05:23:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11396202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijusizefeels/pseuds/kaijusizefeels
Summary: From part 1: Illya left the hospital thinking that he is a Russian-American engineer named Elijah Ludlum.Three month after his discharge from the hospital, Elijah is haunted by a ghost.





	If It Comes Back Then It's Yours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [el3anorrigby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】若重逢，便不再放手](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11459973) by [adaemmait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adaemmait/pseuds/adaemmait)



> This story would not have been possible without a prompt from el3anorrigby on how Illya fell in love with Napoleon. I wasn't planning on continuing the sad amnesiac!lllya story but the prompt got me thinking about how an amnesiac!Illya might remember Napoleon. Alas, real-world amnesia doesn't work like this.
> 
> Also, I was really frustrated/stuck with this story for the longest time but el3anorrigby's writing advice pulled me through.
> 
> Beta-ed by the wonderful Manasi. Sporadic research of 60s New York City by me. 
> 
> FYI: the Met = the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC. It's one of my favorite museums in the world, right next to the British Museum.

Three months after his discharge from the hospital, Elijah is haunted by a ghost.

When he is awake, he catches fleeting images of a figure in the corners of his eyes. In his dreams, he is sharing space beside a shadow only to wake up with dazed memories of a warm figure sleeping next to him. He recounts to the empty air a funny anecdote he has just read and swears he hears an answering chuckle. In the kitchen, he swears he smells something delicious.

Sitting in the lounge chair next to his pool, Elijah makes a decision.

His house, a generous-sized modern in a clean, modest Southern California neighborhood, doesn’t feel like home. The faded photographs of his parents inside don’t feel like people he knew. Even after all these months, there is nothing in Southern California that feels familiar to him. There is nothing to keep him here. He needs a change.

His therapist, provided to him by Kessler & McPherson, is shocked when he tells him his plan to move, studiously avoiding any reference to a ghost.

“Of course, Mr. Ludlum, that is your prerogative, but you’ve only just been discharged from the hospital. You should not—”

Elijah stays firm and Dr. Seymour relents, quickly handing over his business card and telling Elijah to call him if he needs someone to talk to. Also that once he has decided on a place to settle down, he’d be happy to give Elijah some local referrals.

Right before he leaves, Elijah suddenly remembers to ask Dr. Seymour if he knows anything about the man from K&M who greeted him at the hospital. The doctor blinks and says, “I’m afraid I have no idea who that was.”

He thanks the doctor and leaves.

Money or time not being problems anymore, Elijah tells his real-estate agent to put his house up for sale at a modest price and leaves the next day.

He packs light — some clothes, a copy of _War and Peace_ that he’s reading through, his parents’ photographs, and — a last minute decision — his father’s watch, given to him by the mysterious stranger in the hospital. Elijah has not worn it since that day. It doesn’t feel right, but for some reason, he knows it is precious, the most precious thing he now owns. He locks the door behind him and puts the key in the flower pot for the real-estate agent to find.

 

* * *

 

Elijah goes East, then North. The ghost follows him.

Eventually, he finds himself all the way across the country in New York City. It's the beginning of autumn but already the north-east chill is the complete the antithesis of his green and sunny Southern California home. But here the ghost finally says, _close enough. Now come and find me._

 

* * *

 

He buys an Upper West Side brownstone. It's an immigrant neighborhood; his neighbors are hardworking families. The sidewalks are often crowded with children playing in the evenings and old men playing chess on the weekends. He goes jogging in Central Park every other day and joins a boxing gym on 30th Street.

Blond and six-foot-five, Elijah is something of an oddity in this neighborhood. His neighbors ask him what he does for a living and he prevaricates. Mr. Ortiz, who is still sore that Elijah checkmated him in 5 moves, tells anyone who will listen that Elijah must be a Soviet spy. Mrs. Sanchez laughs at the idea that anyone would want to spy on them.

To fill up his time, he goes to the Met and wanders from one priceless masterpiece to another. The ghost in his head tells him everything about the paintings and the lives of the painters behind them. He effortlessly recounts tales about every detail and brush strokes, the occasional artists' feuds, how someone stole another’s pigment or sent a group of students to ransack a studio, stories that the official museum guides never mention.

Elijah decides to take up painting.

 

* * *

  
At first, he is not good. Madame Wu complains about his mechanical shapes and rigid lines and tells him to relax and just feel. He improves over time but still prefers still life over life drawing, with one exception.

He tries to put his ghost to paper, all the fleeting glimpse that he sees now in his dreams: large blue eyes and soft curls, sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw. He searches through photos of matinee idols and models for reference but none look striking enough. He fills his sketchbook with half-finished drawings that don't look quite right but eventually comes to the conclusion that his ghost looks a lot like the stranger he met at the hospital.

 

* * *

  
Dr. Seymour still calls him occasionally to check up. Any headaches? No. Any flashes of light? No. Any memories? Just wisps. Elijah asks again about the man at the hospital. “I’ll ask around” is the reply he gets this time.

His dreams are getting more vivid. He hears chuckles and huffs of exasperation and soft hums of contentment. His ghost is solid against him but remains featureless. "Stay," he implores while pressing kisses on soft curls. In his dreams, his ghost turns around to burrow deeper into his embrace. He hears a sigh and feels warm breaths on his cheeks. _I'm always with you_ , a promise is whispered against his skin. He wakes to an empty bed the next morning.

 

* * *

  
It's dark and raining as he makes his way home from his painting class. A group of young boys are laughing and poking excitedly at something in the alley next to his favorite marketplace. Elijah hears miserable yowls. The boys scatter when he approaches and leaves their object of torment behind. A small black cat hisses at him from inside an overturned trash can, blue eyes flashing. Even in the dim streetlight, Elijah can see how mangy and underfed the poor thing is.

He bends down and reaches out, "come on, Cowboy." The name rolls naturally from his tongue; he doesn't understand why he misses saying it.

Just like that, he is no longer alone.

 

* * *

  
Cowboy fills out quickly with steady meals. He's a handsome fellow and uses it shamelessly to beg for extra treats whenever little Sophia or Mrs. Sanchez comes over to cat-sit.

"Cowboy, don't you dare!" He waves his arm to shoo the cat away from the salmon leftover that Mrs. Sanches has left for him. The little thief quickly darts away but not before he takes a large chunk with him.

 _Why, what are you going to do about it, Illya?_ His ghost taunts him.

"You thief," Elijah grumbles and sits down for dinner only to cave in and pass more salmon to Cowboy when he returns to wind himself around Elijah's ankle in apology.

_Going soft, Peril?_

 

* * *

  
Elijah knows that there is something strange about his situation. He looks in the mirror and has a hard time seeing himself as an engineer.

_You're shaped like a power lifter._

The first time he went into the ring at the boxing gym, he caused an uproar after almost knocking his opponent out with the first punch. He stayed with the bags after that.

Then there are the scars. Some are obviously cuts and scraps — “My friend has always said that I'm rather trouble prone,” the man at the hospital had said— but others are odd and strange looking; a few that even look like burn marks.

His name also doesn't fit. He still occasionally fails to respond when someone calls him 'Elijah' or 'Mr.Ludlum' on the street, even his birth name 'Pavel' is strange but the names he hears in his dreams, _Illya_ and _Peril_ , they fit.

Finally, he calls the number of the card he was given and demands for the name of the man at the hospital. The operator on the other end apologizes profusely, "I'm sorry, Mr. Ludlum, but I'm not sure about who went to see you that day. I can look it up for you if you will—." She keeps on talking, but in the background, he hears a faint voice say "someone should tell Mr.Solo."

Mr. Solo.

Solo.

What a ridiculous name. But when he says it aloud, his heart beats a little faster.

He asks the ghost, "is that your name?" 

_Only when you're mad at me_ , he hears the teasing reply. 

 

* * *

  
Cowboy purrs on his shoulder as he prepares them a simple breakfast. The radio is gushing about the arrival of the French ambassador to New York to unveil the temporary exhibition of the _Mona Lisa_ at the Met. He makes a note to see it that evening.

The weather gets chillier as the day gets shorter. Already the sun is starting to set when Illya arrives at 5 PM. He pulls his jacket tighter. The line is long, stretching far down 5th Ave. Many have come out to see both the ambassador and the painting on the same night. He is really only interested in the painting.

 _One of the most famous art heists of all time_ , his ghost tells him. _But it was an amateur effort — the thief simply walked out of the Louvre with the painting under his jacket. I would have done it with more flourish._

 

* * *

  
Elijah waits patiently, occasionally reading from the newspaper he brought with him. With his height, he can see the sea of people moving sluggishly before him even as more join in from behind. He slowly scans the crowd towards East 81st Street and freezes.

Solo!

His stranger from the hospital is flanked by two large men and being ushered toward a black Rolls-Royce. Their movements are stiff and tense, at odd with the jovial surrounding. Despite the distance, he is sure that he is not mistaken.

He breaks out of the line and heads for his car. Thanks to the large gathering around the museum, he manages to catch up to the Rolls-Royce as it turns down Park Avenue. He follows at a respectable distance, keeping a few taxi cabs between them at all time.

After some time, the car pulls into an abandoned looking warehouse overlooking the Brooklyn Naval Yard. He watches from a distance to see the same two men drag Solo out of the car, much less polite now that there is not a crowd.

The sun finally sets. Under the cover of darkness, he sneaks around the perimeter until he finds a half broken window to crouch under. A heavily-accented English voice drifts from the inside. They're not locals, nor did they talk like the mafia, possibly Turkish. He takes a risk to peer over the window ledge.

In the center of the dilapidated building, Solo is tied to a chair as three men stand over him, the two henchmen and a third man with an eye patch and wearing an expensive suit.

Eye Patch speaks again, "I thought UNCLE agents would be better trained. It's a pity that you are so predictable, Mr. Solo. A whisper of an assassination attempt on the French ambassador in the right ears, plus the famous _Mona Lisa_ , I knew that you would not be able to resist."

Solo glares back, jaws clenching.

"You don't have to worry about Ambassador Lucet," the man taunts. "He is already one of ours. You _are_ my prize."

Saying that, he strikes out at Solo with enough force to topple the chair. His right forearm connects with the side of Solo's head with a dull metallic thud. Elijah realizes that the man has a prosthetic arm. His men dutifully return Solo and his chair upright.

"I finally have the chance to thank you for all the trouble you have caused me." He hits out again, force-snapping Solo's face to the other side. His cufflink catches on skin and leaves behind a long bloody scratch.

The man's other hand grabs Solo by the neck, choking him. "Whatever I lost because of your deception, I gained a clarity of purpose with my new friends." He gestures to one of his men who disappears into the shadow and returns with a metal cart.

Eye patch steps closer and rips open Solo's shirt as another throws a bucket of water over Solo. "My new friends tell me that you are not unfamiliar with this sort of thing." He smiles and holds up a long metal rod connected to a car battery.

"Then you also know what happened to the people who tried this last time, Aksoy." Solo spits blood onto the floor but his voice is even, fearless.

Elijah's hands shake. He knows with certainty that it is not from fear nor the cold.

"The Vinciguerras were aristocratic pretenders. They didn't want to do any of the dirty work themselves. But as you know Mr. Solo, I am very fond of the hands-on approach myself. And as you had said yourself, I am not a gentleman." In a voice simultaneously sinister and gleeful, he asks, "tell me about this UNCLE of yours."

He touches the charged rod to Solo's right pectoral. Solo's body seizes painfully in response to the high voltage, his mouth opens to a soundless scream.

Aksoy pulls the rod away but Solo remains stubbornly quiet. The sadist grins, not at all disappointed by Solo's enduring silence. "I heard you lost your partner recently. A shame. Some of my new friends would have liked to have a word or two with the Soviet beast."

"Go to Hell, bir eşek oğlu ," Solo snarls. Then he couldn't say anything else at all when Aksoy presses the rod against his lower left side and then to his stomach.

Elijah's heart pounds against his rib cage. Internally he rages.

_Let him go! Let him go now! Ya tebya ub'yu! _

Napoleon!

Cowboy!

**Solo!**

_Too bad you have to figure it out like this, Peril. _His ghost whispers wistfully.__

He's not crouching outside a warehouse in Brooklyn watching an almost-stranger being tortured. He's in Rome, in Istanbul, Bucharest, Hong Kong, watching his partner suffer.

Of all the dumb, stupid, idiotic things Napoleon has ever done to him.

_For him._

“We’ve worked together, from time to time," Solo had lied to him with a straight face all those months ago. "Have a nice life" was how Napoleon said goodbye.

Illya's fists clench reflexively, remembering years of violence.

 

* * *

  
Aksoy is overconfident to only leave one guard at his car. Elijah- Illya doesn't bother with any finesse. He sneaks up and breaks the man's neck with satisfaction, grabbing the key from the dead man's pocket.

The car starts with a roar. He floors it and sends it crashing through the warehouse wall.

The bulletproof exterior offers brief protection from wrecked wood and steel beams. He sets the car into a 90-degree spin, sending Aksoy and his henchmen to scramble for cover. The centripetal force swings the back passenger side door open.

"Cowboy!" He shouts.

Solo, wet and still glassy-eyed, stares back at him blankly in shock. "Come on, Napoleon!" He gestures to the stunned figure to hurry into the back seat as bullet pings staccato against the broadside of the car.

With less grace than usual, Solo, still tied to the chair, simply tilts forward into the back seat. Illya ignores his pained groans. There's no time as he drives them out of the warehouse in a hail of bullets.

 

* * *

 

He stops in the wood as soon as he is able to untie Solo, who marvels at him with apprehensive eyes as if he is the one looking at a ghost.

He rests a hand on Napoleon's chest to assure himself that the electricity didn't do additional damage to his heart. The beats thunder beneath his palm, rapid but strong.

"Napoleon," he breathes, carefully examining the bruised and bloodied figure. The cut along Napoleon's brows is long but shallow although the bruises are already red edging on blue. They will be spectacular tomorrow morning.

But it could have been worse. His heart pounds at the thought that he might have missed Napoleon entirely. He could have been obliviously wandering around the Met instead of holding him in his arms.

"Doing okay, Cowboy?" Illya asks as he wraps his jacket around the silent form.

Illya takes him home.

 

* * *

  
They abandon the car a number of blocks away from his house. He still has an arm wrapped around Solo as they stumble through his front door. A shadow darts between their feet with a loud yowl.

"Sorry, Cowboy," Illya apologizes. He must have been napping by the door again.

"What?" Solo asks, sounding confused.

He turns on the light and explains, "my cat."

Illya propels them into the kitchen and runs a towel under warm water. He beckons Napoleon to face him and gently cleans away the blood. Napoleon hisses but does not pull away though he still seems to be in shock.

"Doing okay, Cowboy?" he asks again.

Except instead of answering, Napoleon says, seemingly out of the blue, "I can leave. Pretend I never saw you."

"Why would you want to do that?" Illya asks, hurt.

"So you can keep all this." Napoleon's gestures at the cheerfully decorated kitchen.

Cowboy watches them both from his perch on the fridge, his tails swinging slowly.

"I don't want this!" Illya protests though Napoleon mulishly looks unconvinced.

But they're both exhausted. Drained. "We talk in morning," Illya's accent gets heavier. He doesn't give Napoleon a chance to protest before marching them both into the bedroom.

"Just sleep," he pulls Napoleon into his arms. "Stay," he whispers in the dark and holds on tight.

Illya wakes up quickly at dawn, afraid to open his eyes to find an empty bed. He breathes easier seeing Cowboy snuggling happily around tousled curls; Napoleon sleeps on in exhaustion. His bruises have swelled and darkened over night, but he is still the most beautiful thing Illya has ever seen.

His stomach suddenly growls. With a sigh, Illya quietly gets up and walks into the kitchen.

 

* * *

  
Illya is preparing scrambled eggs when he feels someone staring at him. He turns around and sees Napoleon, swallowed in his oversized robe looking dazed.

"Sit." He points to the dining table chair.

For once in his life, Napoleon obeys him without another word.

Napoleon startles when he puts down plates of scrambled egg and cups of coffee and goes immediately for the coffee. They eat in awkward silence until Cowboy pads in quietly from the bedroom to look for his pillow.

"Where did you find him?" Napoleon asks, bending down to give Cowboy a scratch behind the ears. Loud purr fills the small kitchen.

"Alley out back."

His eyes zeros in on more bruises on Napoleon's chest near his sternum that his missed last night. They look older, already beginning to fade to yellow.

"Those? When?" Illya asks.

"A few weeks ago." Napoleon states simply, "a fist fight during a simple courier mission."

"Doesn't look like a simple mission."

Napoleon sounds defensive, "We ran into some problem, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. I appreciate your help last night, Illya. I really do." He takes a long swallow from his coffee and continues. "But you're finally out now. KGB and UNCLE, the entire thing. Stay out, please. I'll leave today. I won't say anything in my report."

"Don't!" Illya stands up fast enough to rattle the table and with a strong heave, upends everything onto the floor. 

Their half-finished breakfast shatters violently against the kitchen tile. It is a replay of their official meeting in that little coffee shop in West Berlin all those years ago. Except unlike then, Napoleon looks torn and pained; his face completely devoid of its usual studied smoothness.

"Why did you lie to me at hospital?" Illya asks him again because he has to know. Do they mean so little to each other?

Napoleon looks pained as he answers quietly, "I just want you to be safe, Illya. You lapsed into the coma after that damned explosion. I almost lost you then, Illya." He whispers, "I started praying, anything, anything for you to wake up, and then you did. Only the doctors told me that you don't remember being Illya Nickovitch Kuryakin at all. No memories of the KGB, no USSR, no UNCLE, no Napoleon Solo.

You finally woke up and I still lost you."

Illya sees Napoleon's hand, worrying a pale stretch of skin on his left wrist nervously over and over again.

"But then I realized with no memories of the KGB or UNCLE, you would not be an agent anymore. At first, Oleg and the KGB didn't agree with doctor's prognosis, they wanted you back on the first plane to Moscow for examination and reconditioning.

But Waverly agreed with Gaby and I that it would be a death sentence to send you back. I don't know what he did but he got Oleg to back off from the idea. I convinced them that the best thing to do would be to set you up with a new identity, a civilian. They wanted you monitored of course."

"Dr. Seymour," Illya interjects.

"Yes, to see if you would regain any memory. But after a few months, _I thought_ , we all thought, that you never would." Napoleon inhales sharply. "I don't know if what we did was right. I just want you to be safe, Illya. I want that more than anything else. If the price is to lose you," Napoleon's voice breaks, face honest.

He swallows and tries again, "if the price for your safety is to lose you, I would gladly pay it."

Illya frowns when Napoleon goes back to nervously rubbing at his wrist again.

All of a sudden, Illya recalls what it is that is bothering him. He storms out of the kitchen in a rush and runs into his bedroom. Heedless of the mess, he tosses out the contents from the drawers until he finally sees his father's wristwatch, safely stored in the back all this time. He grabs it and returns to the kitchen.

“You _idiot, durachit, obmanut, kryeteen, pridoorok, _ " he berates, dropping down to both knees in front of Napoleon and grabs his hands with trembling fingers.

"That is not price I'm willing to pay!" He kisses the scarred knuckles reverently; memory surfaces of how Napoleon had punched barehanded through glass to save him from some nasty chlorine gas.

He holds out his father's watch and slowly buckles it back onto the wrist it has been resting on these past couples of years. The tang slides familiarly into the well-worn eyelet like a meeting of old friends. Illya knows now why he had been so reluctant to wear the watch himself— because he had already gifted it to his heart years ago.

"But I remember now, Napoleon," he smooths the leather band around Napoleon's wrist, admiring how well it fits. "From the beginning, I knew something was not right. Everywhere I went, everything I did, I was chasing your ghost.

I don't want this life, Napoleon, not without _you_ ," Illya pleads, still on his knees. "Ponimayu?"

Napoleon hesitantly reaches out to touch his face with trembling fingers, "Illya, are you sure?"

Illya nods, blinking back the wetness in his eyes. He grabs Napoleon's hand and presses the callous fingertips to his mouth once again. "Yes, yes, my Solniskyo. I am back."

Eventually, after a long pause, he hears "I'll call Waverly."

 

* * *

  
Illya's brownstone gets turned into an UNCLE safehouse though no one really uses it except for them during downtimes. Illya explains his frequent absences to his neighbors with his new job as a documentary film director, though he didn't really need to because Napoleon, after introducing himself as a film producer and friend from Hollywood, manages to charm half of the neighborhood in the first week and the rest in the second. Even Mr. Ortiz stops talking about Russian spies after Napoleon gifts him with an authentic autographed photo of Vivien Leigh.

Somehow they manage to keep Cowboy, relying on an endless list of volunteer cat sitters.

Illya comes back from the corner grocery store where little Sophia has snuck him some extra treat for Cowboy. He gazes fondly at the scene he comes upon in the kitchen. Cowboy weaves underfoot around Napoleon, who is wearing an apron while something delicious bubbles on the stove. His American Cowboy bends down occasionally to sneak treats to the other.

"You're making him fat," Illya points out.

Cowboy gives him an affronted meow and shows off his fitness by jumping onto his usual place on the fridge with two leaps.

"You're just envious that he likes me more," Napoleon grins at him.

He walks up to Napoleon from behind to wrap both arms around a trim waist, "how so?" 

"Cowboy cuddles with me when he sleeps," Napoleon says as he feeds him a spoonful of beef stew.

"You must smell like fish." Illya laughs and tilts Napoleon's head up for a kiss, deep enough to muffle any exasperated retort.

 _This, here, now_ , is Illya Nickovich Kuryakin's life.

**Author's Note:**

> The TV show Mad Men has some good information on NYC housing in the 60s (http://www.realtor.com/news/unique-homes/mad-men-real-estate-guide/). It's pretty amazing how much price increased since then. Hahaha, they're both millionaires now from that one house alone.
> 
> One reason the Mona Lisa is one of the most recognizable paintings is the world is because of it's high profiled theft from the Louvre in 1911 (http://www.cnn.com/2013/11/18/world/europe/mona-lisa-the-theft/index.html). And it was shown for the first time in the Met in 1963 (http://www.metmuseum.org/blogs/now-at-the-met/features/2013/today-in-met-history-february-4). So of course I couldn't resist adding that to the story.


End file.
